


Summer Star

by matadora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Remus Lupin, Canon Timeline, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, One Shot, POV Remus Lupin, Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Marauders' Era, Remus Lupin-centric, Sexual Content, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matadora/pseuds/matadora
Summary: We waste our time together
  
  Spent every night
  
  One last summer
  
  Hey, you blew me away
  
  Now that you’re not around
  
  To share the nights with me
  
  I wish you would take me away
  
  Just take me away
  
  My summer star





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [regents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regents/gifts).



> • Who is just a default setting now.  
> • Blanket warning for possible out-of-character writing. My knowledge on the canon and the trends of Harry Potter are hella rusty. This is a copy-pasted disclaimer.  
> • Also I tried to Google as much as I can about British customs on viewing and funerals so hopefully, the work paid off.  
> • Title and summary are from Android-18’s _[Summer Star](https://youtu.be/MC9Ctg1i1ns)_ from the album _[Saves the Day](https://youtu.be/S30txInr_8g)_.

“ _Sirius…betrayed Lily and James._ ”

“ _Pettigrew hunted him down to avenge them but was killed with twelve other muggles. In broad bloody daylight._ ”

“ _We should have known. Should’ve known it all along. Once a Black, always a Black…_ ”

He hears the accusations…but does not listen to them. The silence is more reasonable than a crime never seen. The testaments are hearsay, baseless slander. He does not respond…because he prefers the sound of the vacuum to the voice of his mentor. And patiently, he waits for it—every single time he speaks, he keeps his thoughts tucked at the back of his head where even he cannot hear them. And he waits for the vacuum to spirit them away. 

He sits at the edge of his bed with his hands on his lap, palms turned skyward. Long, slender fingers marked by age, the bones bulging under the soft, wrinkled flesh glide into his hand and squeezes it. He asks for pictures. Evidence. Too gruesome, too brutal. There is none that will be provided. Only the misplaced comfort of an old man. 

“Remus…” The old man sounds sad. 

“And Harry?” Finally he speaks, turning his eyes up to the harbinger of bad tidings. The old man’s blue eyes, naturally so clear, and sharp, like a sea sparkling in the summer, have dimmed with grief. He looks like the years have finally caught up with him. “Where is Harry?” he asks him. 

“Somewhere safe. Where his mother’s sacrifice will not be for naught.” Bless the old man’s soul, but he tries to smile. “Minerva and I have made certain of this.”

And his friends?

Still gone. Still ruined. 

He looks for them in the old man’s eyes. He looks for them behind the door of his hotel room, over the old man’s shoulder. He sees a million places where they can hide, spring a prank on him. The silence lingers with the morning light; he strains through its dense fabric to pick up their mischief. 

“I,” the old man sighs, “truly am…very sorry, Remus. Such a loss…such a great loss…”

His friends—betrayed. 

His friends—murdered. 

His heart—broken. 

And his lover?

✩ ✩ ✩

He steps out of the shower to the whistle of a wolf and the clicking of a tongue. When he turns, he finds Sirius lying on his side on the queen bed, carrying his head on his right hand, his left leg folded upwards to give him a spectacular view of his eager manhood. Like some cheap pin-up boy in the centerfold. Remus bursts out laughing, throwing his head back, but he turns away hastily to hide his blush and his stupid grin. “Put that down,” he says.

“I can’t, it’s thrilled to see you.”

“It’s always thrilled to see me,” he retaliates smoothly, padding across the carpeted floor of their hotel room to the plain closet, putting his back to the naked man. The towel around his own nakedness shifts a little when he pulls the double doors open. He takes the time to redo the tuck in front of him. “And we have orders from Dumbledore.”

“I have orders from my knob,” Sirius counters, jumping to his feet to march to his partner. He is gentle but unrelenting when he embraces him from the back, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. A hand travels down to his navel. Remus’ hands chase after it, landing on his towel but he loses the security of the fabric when Sirius rips it free and flings it away. “And it’s telling me,” he pushes up, presses himself flush against the crack between the man’s legs. Remus lets out a startled noise while he whispers, “Dumbledore can wait. You can’t.” He kisses his ear, slowly. 

“Don’t shift the blame on me,” Remus groans, but he lets Sirius tilt his head to the side so he can reach the rest of his neck with his wet kisses. And Merlin, is he hard, and _hot_ between his raw flesh and he knows it’s not because of the weather, because he is shivering from their feverish contact. Sirius rocks himself forward once and he lets him, rides him. He leans his weight back on him to make him do it again. “We have to be there by sun up,” he goes on mindlessly.

“Plenty of time,” Sirius murmurs, pressing another kiss on the crook of his neck while his hand wanders carefully to the dangling weights between Remus’ legs. He feels the man’s breathing jump, then ease. “It’s just sundown.”

“In the middle of _July_ , Sirius!” Remus laughs breathily, fighting off the urge to smile with a bite but it’s a losing battle. He does not notice himself dancing with the fondling hand, a slow waltz choreographed for his pleasure. His belly starts to catch fire and he stokes it. He wants that hand more than anything, closer, tighter. “We won’t have much time,” he moans. 

“Chop chop.” Sirius kisses him on the cheek. 

“Get your hand off me and to the shower.”

Sirius chuckles. “Brave words! Ten points for Gryffindor.” In a low voice, he dares him, “Make me.”

Remus feels like he’s ripping off his own nose to spite himself but it’s a challenge he accepts—because that’s what he does. That’s what they do. Before he loses his mind, he shakes himself free of Sirius’ sorcerous touches and yanks the groping hand off. He whirls, frowning. 

Sirius jumps at the opportunity and kisses him. Remus reacts without thinking when he seizes the man’s cheeks and kisses him back. Sirius’ hand moves like a river snake behind him and squeezes him—hard. He responds eagerly, coming alive. Their moans fill the spaces of their mouths.

They break off to breathe, Sirius to laugh. Remus snarls at him but he cannot hide the amusement from his own flustered face. “Cheat!” he hisses, his hands resting on the other man’s shoulders. “You animal.”

“A dog! To be specific.” Sirius grins. He wraps Remus in a loose embrace, hands resting on the curve of his ass, and draws him close so that they are pelvis to pelvis, want to want. Remus does not fight it. “You know something else about dogs? They can’t take a shower by themselves.”

“How many times must I tell you?” Remus sighs. “We haven’t got time!”

“So chop chop,” Sirius reminds him. He takes one hand from his shoulder, and guides it down past his chest, his abdomen. “I need help getting to my little nooks and crannies—and I need a man who knows me inside-out.”

Remus finds the thick flesh with no trouble and wraps his slender digits around it, knowingly, obediently. He strokes outward; he watches Sirius tremble under his command and crane his neck to let out a low moan. He knows it’s all an act. He knows Sirius knows how much he loves to watch him orgasm. Beg. Submit. 

But he does it again, pushing inward, then pulling back until he reaches the tip, and then he pinches it and rubs it with his thumb. The act becomes real; Sirius’ eyes roll up, his mouth hanging agape. Remus could be smart and finish this now, and he is tempted to do it. Just to prove Sirius wrong, just to vex him, remind him how he likes to play in this relationship. He knows it will leave the man sour, but wanting, baiting him to come for more and to _give_ more—but Remus isn’t cruel. And he knows it will be too fast. For the both of them. 

Letting go of Sirius is the easiest thing to do. Remus knows patience better than a saint. Reaching up to put a finger on the man’s lips, he makes a bargain instead: “One hour.”

Sirius takes his hand and swallows his finger whole, sucking it to the tip. Remus stirs impatiently again, knowing what else Sirius can swallow and suck. “Too little time.”

“You just need to get off.”

“We _both_ need to get off.”

Remus does not deny it. He kisses the man, like a reward for giving the right answer. “Two hours.”

“You never like to rush things, Remus!” Sirius laughs.

“I don’t, but Dumbledore needs us.”

“Dumbledore’s waited this long for us, he can wait for a couple more hours,” Sirius snorts. He steps forward then and wraps his arms around his lover’s back to put them chest to chest. Remus seals him in his own embrace and gyrates their hips experimentally. He responds agreeably. “Give me three hours,” he mumbles to Remus’ ear. “And I will do that thing that you like with my tongue.” He seals his promise by licking him from the tip of his jaw to the crest of his ear.

It’s enough to make Remus shudder in excitement. He has to contain the urge to shift his legs apart, already so eager to welcome Sirius’ wet tongue inside him. He does not even pretend that he can resist, anymore. Because he will not.

He leans back far enough to take Sirius by the cheek and kiss his mouth. “You have better make it damn worth my patience for putting up with you,” he warns him, breath hot. 

Sirius only smirks. “You know I always do,” he says. Another promise. He kisses him again, tenderly this time. Their fingers find each other and entwine. Pulling away, he leads Remus back to the open door of the bathroom from where he had come, just minutes past. A knowing smile dances attractively on his handsome face. 

Spellbound, Remus follows obediently after him.

✩ ✩ ✩

“Someone go and find Dumbledore and tell him Remus Lupin’s arrived.”

And he is standing near the thick open doors, dressed in the heaviest black garbs he could afford at such short notice. His name alone works like magic among those gathered in the long room; silence and anticipation spread like a virus outwards to the other end of the chapel until all faces have ceased all manners of conversation for the privilege of seeing this guest of honor. James’ closest, and only, surviving friend. 

He looks on in a daze, not quite confused but not all that lost either. By now, he has seen all that is there to be seen: jubilant headlines, pictures of a blood-soaked street, the face of a traitor haunting him with his cold, gray eyes. 

And finally, two caskets, wrought in pure, white wood with golden handles gleaming under the candlelight. The penny is yet to drop and Remus is frightened that this is the last time he can deny himself the burden of the truth. 

It waits for him across the center aisle, past the rows of pews and silent witnesses. Mocking him. The chapel is dark and somber, its windows shuttered, keeping in the thick perfume of too-sweet flowers. Like poison gas. He stands at a liminal place and wishes more than anything to remain—but he has overstayed his welcome. 

He has no choice. He begins to walk his own death march, one foot creeping forward, and then the other. He feels like he’s floating although he hears his own crisp footfalls. The road goes on forever. He sees the faces of friends, of strangers peering at him from the sides but he does not notice them. As he nears the caskets, his feet step carefully. James and Lily are asleep. He must not rouse them. 

He stops at their feet, detached from the harsh fact of their deaths. Husband and wife are dressed in pristine white clothes, their hands on their tummies, pale fingers around their wands. He has never seen either of them look so peaceful, James most especially. Like wax dolls put on sale. They had always been on fire, both of them. Light, warm, blazing. The gap between their caskets feels like a crack in the earth through which hell flows. He cannot believe they would allow anything like that to part them.

He moves swiftly to James’ side, braces his weight against the coffin, and pushes.

The pedestal on which James lies groans uncomfortably before it smacks against Lily’s. His mourners gasp, some protesting and rising in outrage. 

He hears them approaching. He works fast. His hands shoot out before anyone can stop him, clawing at James’ styled locks, raking them free of their combed perfection. The cries start, the curses follow. A hand grabs him fiercely by the elbow and yanks him back. He whirls with the momentum. 

“Oi, Lupin, what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!”

“Where are his glasses?” His voice is surprisingly mellow and smooth, like a parent questioning his child about his mischief, but just barely restrained. “His glasses, Moody, where are they?”

“What for?” the stocky man demands, fake and real eyes coming together to glare at the offending wizard. He waddles forward on his pegleg to press the challenge. “Potter no longer has any use for them!”

“You’ve no right to make that decision!” Remus snarls, baring his human fangs. “The bloke’s bloody blind as a bat without his glasses. I know this because I grew up with him, practically lived with him for seven years, nine months each year!”

“Oi, you,” Moody raises his thick pointing finger and warns him, shaking it, “I’ll not have this talk. He was our friend as much as he was yours!”

“James was my friend and so was Lily!” Remus snaps back. “You’ve never seen them at their best and at their worst. You don’t even know that they can barely stand being apart from each other!” He flings his hand wildly to his sleeping friends. “They were _my_ friends. To you and the Order, they were just cannon fodder.”

“’ey, Lupin, that’ll be enough now!”

“Alastor!”

The fight breaks off before it even has the chance to start, although both wizards stand glaring at each other, hands poised to pull out their wands at their soonest convenience. The crowd that has formed around them parts to make way for an old man with long, silvery-white hair and a giant of a man with thick bushes of dark locks.

“Alastor, Remus,” Dumbledore sighs, catching his breath after rushing to the scene. “I urge you both to look beyond your grief. We are mourning the loss of two of our greatest friends. This is a tragedy for all of us.”

“Sooner someone sees that, sooner we can all get along,” Moody mutters gruffly.

Remus narrows his eyes at him, daggers through the slits. “For your sake, I hope you don’t lose everything you hold dear in one fell stroke,” he tells him through gritted teeth. To Dumbledore, he says, “I’m done here. I’ll not have a part to play in this farce.” He does not wait for a reply. He shoves his way past the crowd of spectators and marches straight on out the door.

✩ ✩ ✩

He does not understand death.

When he finally came face to face with the fate of his friends, he’d expected to cry, to come to his knees, perhaps with a soliloquy. But every shred of that vision peeled itself layer by layer when he discovered what laid in wait for him: his two friends, soundly asleep. He did not know what to think; he knew from the decorations and the clothes that they were dead, but that meant nothing. He saw that they were sleeping, but that, too, meant nothing. The evidence was not in the seeing, neither was it in the knowing. Death was supposed to be horrible, a terrible reminder of many things best left unthought. Remus only saw two of his friends, sleeping side by side each other. 

He finds a pub not three blocks away from the funeral chapel. He does not remember how but he knows he cannot just keep stomping around Godric’s Hollow until his heels are worn down. He needs a place to sit. To calm down and sort his thoughts. 

He almost explodes when he steps into a room full of witches and wizards in their darkest clothes. It does not occur to him that the whole town is mourning for their newest heroes, their very own sacrificial lambs. How proud they must be, he wonders bitterly. He passes a board with dancing letters, inviting the patrons to enjoy their first drink on them in honor of the late heroes. He almost turns and storms off. 

But he forces himself down a bar stool and obliges the proprietor with an order. His anger is unjustified, he knows it, but does nothing. He also knows that it is his right to be upset over the deaths of his friends, and the treatment of their bodies in the hands of strangers. _I should have been there,_ he thinks all of a sudden, an idea with no root cause. He draws lazy lines down the bottle of beer with his finger. He knows he is the closest thing to family that James and Lily have in the viewing. James was an only child who became an orphan shortly before they graduated. Lily’s family are muggles unfamiliar to the world she was born into. He should have been there—he knows the couple best, he could have set things right.

A bell rings as the door at the side of the bar swings open. He takes a pull from his bottle and puts it down. A man, a new waiter, saunters in with an apology. “Sorry, am late.” He is an attractive man—broad-shouldered, wiry, long-bodied, tattoos on either sleeves. The muggle fashion compliments him well, a tight-fitting shirt tucked into a pair of straight-legged jeans with its ankles folded. His wand points out carelessly from the back pocket—dangerous but smart if he’s looking for the kind of attention Remus is giving him. 

And when he brushes up those black locks, long but not too long that the ends don’t curl, he does so with such an easy grace. Remus’ eyes zoom for his long fingers. No rings. This man is young. 

_What am I doing?_ He hides his shame behind the bottle. He feels like he is fraternizing with the enemy and despairs. _I should have been there,_ he repeats, panicking, like a child hoping to cover up the truth with a lie. If he spoke the lie enough times, even it can be the truth. _I could have set things right._ If Sirius loved him, he would have thought twice about sending Voldemort to the Potters if he was there. He could have hesitated long enough for Remus to pack them up and hide them. 

If Sirius loved him…

The bottle hits the wood too loudly, his fingers grip its body too hard. He does not bother to be ashamed with his actions and the patrons do not wait for an apology, either. Someone slides a dish of nuts over to him. He looks up in surprise, to the brown eyes smiling down at him from behind the bar, curled black locks cascading carelessly over the right side of his face. Even that reminds him of Sirius. 

On his tummy, on his bed, his room a messy museum of muggle prints from wall to wall. A pureblood soaking up on the culture of a people beneath his standing, living dangerously. He is dressed in a black shirt with sleeves that barely grasp his shoulders, and skinny black jeans that slope along the shape of his ass perfectly. He is drumming a beat with his hands, head bopping, silent words out his mouth, music in through his ears from the thin headphones over his long, straight, black hair gathered up to one side of him. He is listening to the Walkman Remus received from his mother as a present and lent to him. And he knows it is Led Zeppelin. One of his favorites. 

But he hears him enter the room and finds him with his clear, gray eyes. And he smiles, reaches to him—his fingers are not slender but they are soft, and he loves them. 

And he takes them.

✩ ✩ ✩

He arrives at the place he should have been at, the night Voldemort murdered the Potters.

It is the first time he stands before the Potters’ wooden gate, slashed by a ribbon emblazoned by the seals of the Ministry of Magic and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement warning visitors not to cross the line, but already, he is blown away by how familiar it feels. The russet tiled roof, ruined though it was, the white paneled wall, the red-bricked barrier…they are enough to tell him how the Potters lived out their last days. He looks at the garden laid out on either side of the walkway and sees Harry tottering towards his excited father, beckoning him with words of encouragement. Through the window of the living room, past daylight yellow curtains, he sees Lily pointing out to him, then looking at the baby on her arm who hides his face and turns away and she laughs, and embraces him and kisses his hair. And up the narrow bedroom windows in the second floor, the lights low and comfortable and warm, he sees James embracing his wife and his wife moving his glasses up to his head so they can kiss. Hiding or not, they had started to make this house theirs.

Tributes of flowers, of boxed presents and cards and pictures line the top and the feet of the garden barrier. Remus had always known the two to command a steady set of friends and admirers—although James had been a bit of a late bloomer on that regard—but he is still surprised to see that they have so many. He reads the names and looks at the faces, most of them from their time at Hogwarts. Old friends, old professors, old Quidditch captains…

Three stalks of freshly bloomed lilies catch his attention—and his blood grows cold. He knows only one wizard who will do that. Attached to the green string around the stems is a plain card that reads, _Yours always_. It does not have a name.

 _He_ does not need one to know the sender, but the gall of it all still stuns him to disbelief. Blind distaste sends a ruthless hand swinging out to seize the unsightly gift but he comes to just before he commits a grievous crime against a friend. His fingers curl, but he has more difficulty putting his fist down despite common sense. Unfortunately, he remembers that in the past, this unfortunate character and Lily had a good thing going. And unfortunately, Remus is kind.

He forces his hand inside a pocket, glowering—then he turns away, with difficulty but he manages to run away from the temptation to pursue his earlier urge. His unspent rage is used instead to embolden him to shove the gate open and slip under the warning line. He will seek a place of privilege for his humble bouquet, away from the offensive lilies that stain the other tributes. He was their good friend to the end of their days. Almost family.

He claims his right and lays his flowers down the side of the doorstep, where it won’t be bothered. 

Having come so close, gone so far, he pushes his liberty. He wants to give honor to the captain of mischief makers, show him what he’s learned. He reaches for the doorknob and tries it. 

“Oi! It said _Auror Line Do Not Cross_. You dumb, mate?”

“I’m sorry!” Suddenly, he is polite, inconspicuous Moony again, stumbling back from the force of the law, as though he wasn’t yet caught red-handed. James would be disgraced. He whirls to the witch approaching in her black robe, glaring at him, her wand held behind her. Remus stammers, indicating the forbidden door with a thumb. “Y, you see I…” He hears someone else coming in a run. “J, James and Lily and I, we were—”

“He’s fine!” The new witch slows down. Thin but built like a Quidditch player, with long black hair and high cheek bones. “He’s Dumbledore’s man. He’s all right.”

Remus breathes out a sigh of relief, and smiles at Emmeline Vance. 

Emmeline smiles back to him and approaches her friend. 

He opens his arms and they embrace. Emmeline is tall enough to hook her sharp chin over Remus’ shoulder as she whispers, “I’m sorry. I know how close you all were.”

Remus nods. He is stunned to realize how comforting it is for his loss to be acknowledged. 

He lets the witch lead the way. “Dumbledore wants to keep a member of the Order stationed in the house at any time of the day until investigations are finished,” Emmeline informs him. “For today, it’s me.”

The scent of enchantments is tangy and sharp in the Potters’ living room, the air heavy with it that Remus has to take in a deep breath, as though he is suffocating. He does not know what to feel when he realizes that there was so little in the way of a struggle. The moving pictures of family and friends are still standing in their various frames on the mantel, and there is nothing that is broken or Transfigured to an unfortunate version of itself. Only the coffee table is displaced, and one of the solo seats of the couch set is pushed back. One would think they simply left for the grocery store and will be back soon. 

He sees a mark on the floor tracing the shape of a body and freezes. 

Emmeline notices his rigid form. She steps away from the stairwell to take Remus’ hand and guide him back to the present. “If it’s too soon…”

“I should have been here long before,” Remus says, refusing Emmeline’s offer to stop, to give him more time. “I should have come much sooner.”

“We all should have.”

“Is this…” He looks up to the witch from the absent body at his feet. 

“James,” Emmeline answers him. “We think he tried to give his wife and son a chance to run away before…

“Well…” she continues.

They both look down to the shape of James’ corpse again. 

Their steps sound hollow as they climb the stairwell up to the second floor, which is much quieter than the one below it. In the hallway, Remus is stunned by the calm before the storm; the floor is clean and the furniture intact.

“She didn’t try to run away.” It was all Remus could think, hoping against hope that he could find some evidence to the contrary, maybe a magical trap he had yet to sniff out. But why would you set a trap in your house if its location was already protected by a powerful spell? It baffles him that so many things had gone wrong at the worst time, in the worst way. 

“Given the chance, I think she would have,” Emmeline shares, standing by an open door, looking through it, hand on the handle. “She was trapped, though.”

Trapped. Caught by surprise. Helpless to the sound of her husband dying…

Remus closes his eyes. It’s almost too much to bear. 

The nursery tells a similar story with the living room—a quick fight, an empty crib barely touched, the walls unmarred by missed charms and hexes. The floor is walkable without suddenly stumbling into a broken piece. Could Lily have just given up like that? He remembers her fiery red hair, her sparkling green eyes… 

He remembers her sleeping peacefully next to her husband, face white because of death. He can’t believe it. 

“You know how it all happened?”

“Dumbledore told me,” Remus says, nodding. “After Voldemort killed Lily and James and was defeated, Hagrid came to take Harry away. And Sirius…” He sees him on his tummy, on his motorbike. 

He reaches to Remus and Remus takes his hand. 

“I almost can’t believe it either.”

Remus wonders why she said _almost_. 

“I’m just…” Emmeline turns away from the mark of Lily’s corpse on the floor, her face bitter. “I’m just glad Hagrid didn’t…” She cannot finish her thought. 

He sees Sirius cooing at a wailing Harry as Lily sets the poor boy carefully on his arm.

He turns to leave the room. He does not want to see anymore.

✩ ✩ ✩

They don’t talk much during the date, and it worries Remus. He has taken Sirius to all the places that he likes, even won him an ugly stuffed toy of his choice in the claw machine but the triumph of beating a rigged game is only short-lived. Sirius tries many times to convince Remus that he is enjoying himself, sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing, but the brooding silence becomes more honest than his cheer. When he looks off into nothingness, his eyes glazed by a fog, Remus can almost hear the storm within his thoughts. It’s the war, he knows. War and the deaths it has brought them.

Sex is the last thing Remus can think of to calm the storm. He cannot let their night end like this. He is the one who leads Sirius back to his flat and sits him down the foot of his bed where he can watch Remus strip. He knows he doesn’t but he keeps going—he must.

Long digits loosen Sirius’ buttons one after another. Sirius does not really help him so much as permits him to pull his shirt off. Remus touches him lightly and he shivers a little. He comes to his knees to kiss the taut bud on the left side of his chest and finally, those hands come to rest on his shoulders, hesitating but present. He moves on, lower. 

The belt slides free after a few tugs, and then those absurdly skinny jeans. Remus misses the laughter, the jokes and insults they fling at each other while they work together to free Sirius from the tightly-fitted pair of trousers. His underwear comes off with much less resistance. He leaves it on the floor so he can start kissing the bared leg of his lover—toes, calf, muscle, knee. 

He follows a hiking trail known only to his lips—thigh, inner thigh, crotch. He takes the flaccid shaft in one hand and begins to massage it while he kisses Sirius’ fruits tenderly. Finally, the man comes alive with a sigh. 

Remus comes back up and they kiss softly, but deeply. Sirius reaches up to frame his face—the first act of love he’s done of his own volition—while Remus helps him crawl back to his pillow, and he lies down. 

He watches Remus bring his legs apart, fold his knees up like a birthing woman. Remus crawls between them over to him and peppers his face with kisses. Sirius seeks his hair and buries his fingers within those light brown locks. 

Remus smiles and laughs. He feels relief flooding his chest as Sirius brings their lips together and he asks permission to explore the lower man’s mouth with a flick of his tongue across his teeth. Sirius opens up for him. He plunges through, distracting the man from the hand reaching down between his legs to knock on his door, brushing it. 

Sirius tenses briefly. “Wait,” he says, then shifts himself so he can pull his legs wider open. “Okay.” They kiss again, and this time he pushes back with his own mouth and tongue and brings his hand down to Remus’ waiting length to stroke it end to end. He doesn’t stop even when Remus slips a finger inside him, two fingers…

Remus moves slowly on and in him, holding him down by one shoulder, his rigid shaft like a saddle horn pressed between his stomach and his caressing hand. His motions are deliberate; there will be no ramming tonight, only the constant comfort and pleasure of his sliding flesh, the rhythm of their breaths and Sirius’ moans. He himself is tempted to join him for a chorus but he stops himself by biting his lips. Tonight must be devoted only to Sirius Black, and he makes it last for as long as he can, until Sirius hits his absolute limit and spills all over him and him inside. The tremors are still there in his overworked hips when he flops down beside him. He’s burning between his legs and his muscles are heavy. 

But he looks at Sirius, and Sirius is breathless. And deliriously happy. 

And his heart becomes full, and he relaxes. He closes his eyes, and he falls asleep with Sirius’ dreamy smile in his head. 

When he wakes up, he is surprised to hear the sound of tears where there had once only been songs of pleasure. Sirius’ back is turned to him, and he is trembling, _small_ with his knees drawn up. It’s an alarming sight to say the least. He practically flings himself to the sobbing man and grabs him by his hunched shoulder, aching to be noticed. “Sirius?” he whispers urgently, but the man doesn’t turn, or stop. “Sirius, what is it! What’s wrong?” He is begging him. He remembers the clouds behind his eyes, the impenetrable silence. 

Sirius refuses to answer, shaking his head, but draws tighter into himself. 

Remus does not know what to do anymore, but he shifts closer to the man so he can slip one arm around him and loop the other over his shoulder. It is all that he can do and it kills him that he is so helpless. He kisses the back of his neck, nuzzles it.

Sirius lays a hand on the one on his shoulder, and Remus knows it is the best that he can hope for.

✩ ✩ ✩

His shoes squeak noisily against the polished floor when he all but stumbles into the small inner room. Peglegged though he was, Moody marches with a vicious purpose and his hand around Remus’ elbow is fiercer than a basilisk’s bite. Stubbornly, he tries to shake him off—

And then he is slammed against the wall and he chokes in his own breath. Remus almost falls before his reflexes kick in to hold him upright. The door swings shut. 

Moody paces, keeping his wand. He moves as if his hands are itching to throw something else at Remus but eventually, it is his own accusing finger that he flings at the glaring man. “What the bloody hell were you thinking, Lupin? Attacking a guest in front of the whole damn room!”

“A Death Eater!”

“He’s cleared! By no other man than _Albus Dumbledore_ himself,” Moody snarls. “Do you hear yourself? Have you gone barking mental?”

“If I’m mental because of the distrust that man,” Remus jabs a finger to the door pushed open by members of the Order rushing in to check the situation, “has sown in me and my friends! Then lock me up at St. Mungo’s and throw away the key because I would rather be insane than to pretend that I can _stand_ to be breathing the same air as that sleazy traitor!”

“Remus, please!” Emmeline sounds exasperated. “Keep your voice down, Severus might hear you.”

“So let him.” Remus dares Emmeline to fight him. Surrounded by the stunned and the concerned, it is as though he is cornered by his own allies but he doesn’t back down. “He bloody well knows what he walked into, he shouldn’t be surprised no one’s falling all over themselves to bring him a cup of tea! I certainly don’t see _you_ doing it.”

“I’m not here to pretend I like him more than you do,” Emmeline spits, frowning. “But I know that he’s come to visit a friend. In peace! Remus, this is not a convenient time to forget that we are all mourning and you are not the only one who lost your friends.”

“If the world wants to bring down these very walls when they come flocking to grieve, then let them. Anyone,” Remus brings his finger to the door again, “but that man. If he truly valued their friendship, then he should have given himself to protect Lily, instead of joining the very people who murdered her and the man she loved and married!”

“That is enough.” Before Emmeline takes the opportunity to retaliate, Dumbledore swoops in between them, voice trembling with command but without the impatience. “As much as I wish we could all get along, I must acknowledge that there is bad blood between Remus and Severus, and this cannot be resolved so carelessly. Hagrid, Mundungus, please,” he gestures smoothly to them and the noisy chapel, “be good to check on our guests. Doubtless, they will be wanting of refreshments. And close the door on your way out.” He waits until both have removed themselves from the conversation before he resumes. 

“Remus,” he begins, a smile quivering uncertainly into being, “please…it was by my leave that Severus has come to visit Lily. If there is someone you must be angry with, it is I.”

“But I can’t.” Remus is surprised by what he hears, not because his mentor has sacrificed himself to take the bullet for a man he abhors, but because of the history he is being made to forget, all to protect a traitor. “ _You_ know _I_ can’t!” But he will not forget the risks he went through, the tedious arrangements to protect the student body from him and him from them, all so a werewolf could be given a shot at life. 

“But _he_ has no right!” Remus snarls, finger to Severus again. He is begging that kind face to understand him, the hurt that is ripping his heart with fire. “He has done nothing to protect her and all that is important to her. He has consorted with the enemy and all for what? She’s dead,” he sniffles, “and he’s done nothing to stop that and yet he’s here. As if he _tried_.”

“I wouldn’t trust that man as far as I can hex him myself,” Moody puts in, frown dark, bulging eye swiveling frantically, “but I trust Dumbledore here. And if he says he’s fine, even if I say it’ll only be fine if the sod’s screaming his head off in Azkaban, then I’m willing to stay my wand. For now.” He brings his hands together over his tummy. “Maybe he didn’t do anything, maybe it wasn’t enough. But at least he’s regretting it. It’s much more than I can say for friends who betrayed their best mates.”

Remus whips and stares at the Auror, as if he himself had confessed that he was working previously for the enemy. His vision blacks out, the world spins. He hears the voices of friends calling to him in a panic, someone ripping the sleeve of his robe. 

He throws Moody to the wall and his wand is out. The room is cold and silent, echoing with itself, over-fragrant with the sweetness of flowers that remind him of overripe fruits. Something rotten. It burns at his bile and makes it hard to think. 

Moody glares at him and he stares back as if he is an alien. His hand is around his collar, but the Auror does not struggle to liberate himself. 

“Remus,” Dumbledore beckons to him calmly, “put down the wand. There is no need for this.”

“On the contrary, I actually much prefer it be where I can see it.” Moody’s revolving eye has swiveled to keep it in sight while his proper eye sees only the stunned face of the man who accosted him. “Much better than being backstabbed. Eh, Lupin?”

Remus jumps at the challenge. He does not know what to do. He does not remember what happened, how it all came to be.

“You wanna join your friend in Azkaban? Fine, be my guest. You know the words!” When it doesn’t come, Moody frowns like a man whose time is being wasted by his murderer. “Sooner we weed out all these bloody traitors, sooner we can all go back to our normal lives.”

But Remus is not a traitor. It’s Severus! And Sirius… 

Sad Sirius, crying Sirius. Frightened, curled up like a babe. Was it regret? Or was he afraid that Voldemort would find out about his weak spirit? It hurts to think of him that way. The man he loved, the man he made love to. 

Gasping, smiling, watching him slide out, then ease in, whispering his name. 

He puts down his wand. He has no right. He lets go of Moody and casts his eyes to his shoes. He has no right. Moody pulls at his robes around him and mutters something unpleasant about him. 

He steps back and turns to the door to leave but the faces of stunned friends seize him. The inner room of the funeral chapel is normally reserved for the grieving family of the dead but in the absence of them, the Order has taken over it.

But those who look back to him are like strangers, confused about the presence of another stranger among their ranks. All their wands are out—Diggle, Doge, Vance. 

All except for Dumbledore who looks at him with sadness. 

Disappointed. 

Shame burns him like an incense. Remus shrinks to hide his face from the old man. 

There is only a small relief that comes from bursting through the chapel doors—and running.

✩ ✩ ✩

Refuge comes in the form of a pub not three blocks away from the funeral chapel, still cashing in on the Potters’ untimely death, and three shots of whisky.

He knows it’s too early in the day to be getting drunk but he also knows that when one comes to a pub, it is to drink and eventually to get drunk. And so that is what he has resolved to do—to drink and to get drunk. It can’t possibly be much worse than any of the decisions he’s made by far—the friendships forged and ruined, the person he chose to love and to love him—and comparatively, it is much easier. It is mechanical, and advantageous—alcohol dulls the senses, and the hurt and the shame.

It is funny, though, that he is acutely aware that he is not getting drunk fast enough. He puts down a fourth serving of liquor but the sadness in his mentor’s face still burns like a brand in his eyes. He did that—and he doesn’t know how much alcohol he must pour before the memory starts to blur, even for a day. He will go to sleep with it. It will find his dreams with his regrets and his heartache.

A fifth shot lingers near his lips. He wants to forget but he doesn’t know how. The ways he knows are no longer available, and there is no one who can teach him some new tricks.

Something slides across the countertop to him. He looks down and finds his dish of nuts refilled to the brim. He knows where it came from.

And when he looks up, he finds him there—all black hair and muggle fashion and long arms. He feels something twist in his belly, like a matchstick setting fire to the direct line between his guts and his heart. He longs to smile but he knows he can’t. He shouldn’t.

But he longs…he longs. And Dumbledore is frowning at him and James and Lily are asleep forever. And he’s _there_ , wiping the counter, asking him if he would like to change the whiskey in his glass. And he is longing…

✩ ✩ ✩

The illusion shatters as soon as the door slams shut and he pins him to the wall; the man is not Sirius Black. He is smaller, and so much younger. His muscles are all in the wrong places, not at all built like an experienced duelist, and outside the warm lights of the pub, he becomes nothing. The clinical whiteness of the men’s room and its dreadful tiled walls has thrown off his colors and his angles. His cheeks are rounder, his chin is longer.

But Remus is desperate, and he’s desperate enough to believe that he just needs to jerk off. It doesn’t matter who he does it with, where he does it. Hand, mouth, ass, it’s all the same…

Those long fingers grope for the lump straining against the cotton of his boxers. He quakes. His fingers are tough and rough. They know nothing about finesse, waiting, _love_. He doesn’t tease or stimulate, he just wants and wants and _wants_. Remus has to rip him away from his sex before he loses whatever he has left of his libido. He grabs for both of those strange hands and shoves them to the wall overhead. Apparently, this one likes it because he smiles. Wrong. Sirius would have _laughed_.

But he doesn’t stop humping him—and that at least feels right. He just has to close his eyes and pretend this was exactly what he wanted. The man’s mouth tastes of peppermint smoke and a bit of cherry candy, and even that doesn’t last long. Soon, he forgets how to kiss. Soon, he has to tear his mouth free so he can breathe. Remus keeps going but his lips and his teeth do not look for a neck to bite, and Sirius is not there to whisper challenges to him. To kiss his ear and to make the most erotic moan that would have melted his legs and burst the dam. No, this one’s moans are too loud, too high.

Remus almost can’t believe it when he spills, and it’s all over. The resistance ebbs from the hands he is holding and he steps back, watches the younger man shift uneasily in his feet, embarrassed by the wet patch on his briefs. Those legs look so skinny…

He utters an apology before he can stop himself, but he can’t look at the man’s face again. He, too, feels embarrassed, and sorry. He pulls his pants up and fixes his belt. “I’ll go first,” he says, as if that would make the man feel better. He doesn’t need to clean himself up, after all. But he remembers to thank him, in spite of everything.

It’s the least he can do after making a mess of things.

✩ ✩ ✩

When he wakes up, he finds Sirius between his legs, swallowing him in. It’s the most amazing feeling that he can remember; his mouth is soft and warm and his tongue is playful and gentle. A heady fever fills him from the pit of his stomach. He sighs, relaxes. He feels absolutely safe.

“Do you love me?” he asks all of a sudden.

Sirius opens those gray eyes to him, and smiles. He slips a finger inside him and sends a pleasant shiver up his spine. He knows the answer to his question.

✩ ✩ ✩

It’s much less effective to get off when he’s using his own hands but at least he knows his own pressure points and wherever it is he is the most sensitive. The whole act feels so hollow without the intimacy, though; as soon as he finishes, he cleans up, pulls off the rest of his clothes and cools down in a shower.

And then he’s slipping on his robe and putting on his shoes. The door knocks just then and he gets up, habit putting the wand in his hand before he approaches. “Who is it?” he asks needlessly while he peeks through the door lens.

He is surprised to find that it is Dumbledore, standing in his own black robes in the hallway. True enough, his visitor tells him, “It’s Albus.” And his voice sounds cheerful—as though Remus hadn’t just threatened a common friend yesterday.

Remus gulps, but pulls the door open and stands aside to let the great wizard through. He must be the picture definition of obedience this time. He does not know how to begin to ask his forgiveness, otherwise. He keeps his head low, his appearance meek.

Dumbledore thanks him and inspects his present lodgings. No carpet, just a single window looking out to another wall. The hotel room is big enough only for a single bed, a chair, a table and the bathroom. “We were waiting for you to come back yesterday,” he begins, “and when you didn’t, we were wondering why.”

Remus smiles bitterly. “After the scene I caused yesterday, how could I still have a face to show? I’m sure Moody must have banned me within 50 feet of the chapel by now. I should apologise to him…but I can’t begin to think how.”

“Well, as many wise men tell us, there is no better time to start but now,” Dumbledore says.

And then the peg leg starts tapping, and Remus blanches. He watches in horror as Moody’s waddling bulk appears from behind the door, scanning the plain floor and the plainer walls with his characteristic paranoia, before deigning to come in. His nightmare eye finds the petrified wizard first before the rest of his attention follows. “All right, Lupin?”

Remus tries to nod. He fails slightly.

Moody spends the rest of his welcome poking at his pillows and his meager belongings while Dumbledore sits across Remus on the lone chair, delegating the younger wizard to the bed.

“It just…feels like my world’s come apart,” Remus shares towards the end of his explanation, a sad rationalization of his irrational behavior. “One of my closest friends has come out as a traitor, and someone who I see is a traitor is treated more cordially than my own friend…I don’t understand that. This is not how it’s supposed to be. Once upon a time, I felt like a rich man who could take on the world. I had everything I could ever want and need…and now all of a sudden, I have nothing. Just memories of what once was…dreams of what might have been…and it’s hard. This shift in reality…in perspective…” His head moves slowly, shaking. “It’s hard…and I never wanted to go through this. Now I don’t know what to do.”

Dumbledore doesn’t answer, and the seconds tick by where there is nothing to listen to but Moody’s brash but thorough investigation. Once, Remus hoped for nothing but silence…now, he is cursing it.

He is almost elated when his mentor begins. “First,” he says, “we must accept.”

He looks to the wizened man as though that is the most impossible task he has been given, more difficult than putting his life in the line for a cause. “But how?” he asks, despairing.

“We live.” Dumbledore smiles. “Simply so. We live, to honour the lives that have gone before us. And to preserve ourselves to protect the future, for whom these lives we love was given. Among us all, you are one of those who suffered the greatest losses. James, Lily, Peter…”

He remembers the shape of Sirius’ lips, the smell of his hair.

“We will always remember them. But you must not forget those who survived.”

Remus quirks an ironic smile. “Harry Potter,” he says. Out of sight, out of mind. And whose fault is that? 

“And yourself, Remus.”

Remus’ expression falls blank, like the empty light that falls in from the morning sky. He does not know…if he should consider himself a survivor yet.

“Live for yourself, and for James’ son,” Dumbledore urges him. “And then all will follow.”

Easier said than done…but what other choice does Remus have? Nothing. Remus has nothing.

Moody’s wooden leg falls heavily on the bathroom floor on his way out, back to the bedroom. “All clear,” he concedes, as though begrudgingly. “This room’s as straight as the stick up Filch’s arse. Your faucet leaks, though.”

“I’m aware,” Remus assures him. “Thank you, Moody, and forgive me. I was…upset. I won’t make excuses for my actions in our previous interactions, but I hope it isn’t too late to fall back to your good graces yet. Will you allow me to make it up to you?”

“Hm?” Moody frowns at him, one eye swiveling hyperactively. “So long as you don’t go stabbing your friends at the back, I reckon we’re good.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Remus smiles.

✩ ✩ ✩

The last day of the viewing brings in the most number of visitors, by far—and Remus doesn’t remember a moment where he sits down longer than five minutes before he has to get up and attend to the guests again, eager to pay their final respects to the parents of the boy who lived. It is, however, a day without events. And though he knows why that is the case, he is glad for it all the same.

By the time the last minute arrivals have dwindled, it is already so late. And Remus is tired, and nursing a bottle of beer they drink in honor of the late Potters. Tomorrow they will be buried. Peter, too, will be laid to rest, although it is only his finger, recently returned to his poor mother, which will go under in its own special casket. It’s more than they can ask for, though. And they have all promised to come.

It’s the first time Remus sees the inner room bursting at the seams with members of the Order. Fletcher is singing a bawdy song, Moody is somehow enlisted to put up with a weeping Arabella. Dumbledore and Doge both step out, perhaps because it is too noisy to talk, and across the room, Emmeline is raising her bottle, just next to Hagrid and Diggle the snoring pair.

Remus smiles and raises his own bottle in return. They drink. He gulps down the last of his beer and lets it fade out of existence. He does not hear the clicks of heels until they are close, and when he looks up, he is surprised to see that it is Emmeline, offering a sheepish smile.

“It’s late,” she tells him when she leans close enough to his ear, “and I should get going. We have to be up early for the funerals tomorrow but I think I drank too much. Will you walk with me?”

It’s not a question. Remus gets up, and does not say goodbye to the room when he offers her his arm and leads the way out.

Godric’s Hollow is quiet at night, and the streets are black and wide and empty. Only the brisk wind has the courage to announce itself, sometimes to the applause of dead leaves scraping at the ground. Emmeline leans her weight comfortably on the wizard and her steps are careful, but steady. They don’t talk. The silence is comfortable.

They reach Emmeline’s hotel and take the stairs up to her room. Remus is the one who opens the door for the witch…although by then, the premise no longer seems to matter. He steps in after her as she loosens her scarf and peels her robe. The room is slightly bigger than his own and the lights are brighter, if a little jaundiced. The bed looks comfortable enough.

He leaves his hand on the handle…as he pulls it shut.

Emmeline turns to him and smiles.For what it’s worth, she has the sweet grace to approach him with an invitation, “Bloody cold out there, eh? Would you like to stay for a cup of tea? The room service here is pretty good.”

“I think we both know where this is going.” Remus can’t believe what he hears himself say but he’s not about to back out either. This is something he wants and needs, and Emmeline is so close. She smells faintly of beer, powder and something that vaguely reminds him of flowers in the garden.

“You’re right.” Emmeline herself doesn’t beat about the bush anymore. Her fingers find the buckle of his belt and ponder its purpose. “When did you find out I wasn’t really drunk?”

“I never believed you.”

“Clever.” Emmeline smirks.

He’s on her before any one of them can stop him, mouth to mouth, breath to breath. He locks the door, and then he is pushing her to the general direction of her bed while Emmeline is shoving his robe off his shoulders and clawing at his shirt. The buttons of her own pop free first. Remus grabs her by her ass and lifts her up. She wraps her legs around him.

She falls to the bed and they’re still kissing. Their hands move frantically over flesh they do not know but they’re eager to find out all their secrets. Emmeline’s bra comes off and Remus seizes her breasts. He stops long enough to help her shove down his bottoms and then she is guiding one of his hands to the wet slit under her skirt and finally, she’s moaning. She tilts her head up. Remus leaves a cluster of kisses around the base of her throat while he massages her inside with his fingers until she guides his head down to her right breast and he suckles obediently. He hears Emmeline say, “Fuck.” He wants to hear it again so he reaches for her other teat and pinches it. She lets out a cry and humps his stroking hand.

They take some time to familiarize themselves with each other’s anatomy but they are patient, and diligent. They don’t rush until satisfaction is well within reach and when the climax finally comes, they seize it by the horns and ride it. Let it ebb and flow with their passions.

The patterned walls are suddenly too quiet that they must hum to themselves. The bed bounces as Remus brings himself to sit at the edge of the mattress and carefully peel the soaked condom from his length. He hears the ruined sheets shuffle, feels Emmeline moving.

“You know, I honestly didn’t know what to expect walking into this,” Emmeline tells him. “You surprised me, Remus. I thought you were gay.”

Remus smiles and looks over his shoulder. She’s covered her modesty with pillows and she’s lying on her side, carrying her head on her left. “Now, you know the truth.”

Emmeline raises a brow.

Remus only smiles wider. “If Sirius had been a woman, I would have married him right after we graduated.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Emmeline snorts. “James didn’t like his thunder being stolen.”

“He would have had to put up with it.” As a favor to Emmeline, he whisks the condom away into nothingness. “You surprised me too, Ems. I never saw you to be the type for hook-ups.”

“I’m not,” Emmeline says. “This was my first.” There is a pause before she continues, “You know how it’s like…during the war, we’re always so careful and we’re always on edge. Now that it’s over, I just…”

Remus stands to pull up his boxers.

Emmeline shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know if ‘lose control’ is the right phrase. I don’t like getting wasted but I still want to do stupid things.”

“It sounds about right by that explanation,” Remus laughs briefly.

“Have sex with a gay man is something I decided was a part of my stupid bucket list just now,” Emmeline goes on, watching the wizard step into his pants and hunt around the floor for his shirt. “Too bad you weren’t the kind of gay I was looking for.”

“You can cross out a different item, at least.” After administering some minor repair work on the fabric with a few choice taps of his wand, Remus slips on his top. “I can confirm to you that you’ve just had sex with a bi bloke.”

“Ever the optimist.”

“I must be,” Remus reminds her. “My war is not yet over.” He finishes up his buttons, tucks his shirt in then does up his belt. The robe comes flying to him with a muttered spell. “What time do we have to be at the chapel again tomorrow?”

“Balls early, that’s all I know,” Emmeline laughs. “Get lots of sleep. You’ll have a lot to do tomorrow. Goodnight, Remus. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Remus waves his own goodnight. He sees himself out the door.

✩ ✩ ✩

His hotel is only five minutes away from Emmeline’s—but he walks back the way he came, this time alone. The only sound he hears now are his own soft footballs and the shy chatter of fallen leaves.

The memories of the past have gone silent, for once.

It’s a relief, but the relief scares him. He wonders in a panic if he had been the one who sent away his own demons but he’s scared because it’s too soon. The bodies aren’t buried yet. Sex with Emmeline was just that: sex. All chemical necessity and no attraction. But he cannot hear Sirius breathing next to his ear anymore, his hand sliding up his flesh. For once, the silence is just silence and the darkness is nothing but darkness.

It’s a relief, the amnesia he needs and Sirius Black deserves, but he does not want it now.

The funeral chapel is thankfully empty; it will be a perfect place to hide and just disappear even for a moment.

The pews are still littered with candy wrappings and empty cups. There’s still a faint whiff of beer, wine and food in the air, mingling with the scent of flowers and candle wax. He breathes them in and lets them out. The air feels sharp in his nose. He walks on, calm and clear-headed.

Three days later, James and Lily are unchanged. Three days later, they’re still dead.

He walks up to each side of them, brushing up their hair to plant a kiss on each their foreheads. Then he takes up his station at their feet, easing himself down the floor and leaning his head back against the pedestal, one knee up, his arm on it. He sees the chapel open up before him. The ceiling is high and he realizes that the room is not as small as he first thought. 

Too bad he is alone. What a riot it would have been if they had been complete…somewhat. Him, Sirius and Peter, sitting by their mate’s feet, passing around a bottle, cheering to the Potters’ many accomplishments. The good, the bad, the stupid, the imaginary. Then they would make promises about Little Harry. They would fill up the whole dead space with their howls and their cheer. And they would spend the night in the chapel—one last night where they are all together.

The doors groan open. Remus pretends he sees Peter leaning out from one side and shaking a bottle of Firewhiskey to him with a wide grin, and then Sirius will come forth with more bottles raised and some ridiculous announcement about his god-given arrival.

“Remus?”

But all there is is an old man, one long aisle across him.

“I should have expected,” Dumbledore says calmly. His dark silhouette is vague in the dim light. He always seemed so bright, illuminated, but Remus supposes that death has a way of dulling even a Phoenix’s flame. “I was thinking I might keep James and Lily company a little longer,” the old wizard shares, “but I think I shall rest easy knowing you are here. Will you stay the night, then?”

Remus might. He doesn’t know yet.

“Dumbledore,” he begins quietly, leaving the acoustics of the room to carry his voice. “Where is the boy?” Harry’s parents are about to be buried. He should at least be there at the moment the earth will reclaim them.

But Dumbledore does not answer quickly, and when he does, Remus does not like it. “Somewhere safe, I promise.”

“Fuck you,” Remus tells him.

Dumbledore says nothing more. He pulls the door shut with him.

And returns Remus to the silence.

✩ ✩ ✩

He opens his eyes and Sirius is there, watching him sleep as he always does. Morning casts a cool sunlight on his easy profile. His hand is tucked between his ear and his pillow. His flesh looks warm and enticing.

“Do you love me?” Sirius asks him.

Remus wakes up crying in his pillow.

✩ ✩ ✩

The ceremony ends before the weather has a chance to pour, and they disband with sighs of relief. One more funeral to attend, and then it is to Hogwarts for them for a celebration of the brave heroes they just buried.

“Remember, you’re to deliver a eulogy too at Pettigrew’s burial,” Moody reminds him as he stomps off after the rest of the Order, in two unorderly lines between the rows of white markers. “Don’t be too late.”

“I won’t,” Remus promises. One by one, the attendees Disapparate, leaving those who prefer the broomstick to beckon impatiently at whoever else will tag along.

“That was a beautiful speech, Lupin.”

He turns and sees Elphias Doge smiling, approaching with a broomstick held like an overly tall cane. He remembers bearing James’ casket next to him, both of them right in front of the queues. “The Potters would have loved it,” he adds.

“Even if they didn’t, they have no choice but to put up with it.” The joke makes Remus grin a little.

“Any plans for the future after today?”

“I don’t know,” Remus admits, looking at James and Lily’s freshly erected gravestone for ideas. The soil over their caskets is still bald. In time, he knows it will be gone under a thick blanket of snow, and it will be like any other grave in the cemetery. “I hear Yorkshire’s nice. I might come around. It’s been ages since I last took a vacation.”

“It’s nice if you don’t mind freezing your balls off,” Doge gives a healthy chuckle, raising his hand to hide it too late. “But that sounds wonderful.” His hand swings to rest on his back. “It will be good to get away from all of this for a while. Revives the mind and the spirit! You’re too young to be carrying the full brunt of the survivor’s burden yet.” He pats him fondly on the sleeve. “It will be good for you to forget about some of them.”

“I think…that will take some time.” Remus smiles. “But I agree…I think I like that.”

Doge gives another hearty chuckle, clapping him on. “Well, we should go.” He starts off, gesturing to the distance across him. “I see they’ve left Emmeline to wait for me.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind,” he laughs. He waves at Doge, but he doesn’t follow him yet.

He wants to stay a little longer with his friends. A private moment between the three of them, one last time before the grave ages and the memories start to tarnish. He knows it will be difficult to keep them vibrant, but he will not ask for a miracle. He will not ask for much—just enough to go by, to keep him company for what was going to be his new life. A life he never asked for but must live. 

And it starts with one step back, and another, each taking him farther from the friends that he will miss. He steers himself after Doge’s wake, down past lines of neatly laid out graves…but he looks back, over his shoulder. Because he has to.

And he’s there, just as he expects. Black hair, black jacket, skinny jeans, looking on from the distance. A ghost both wanted and unwanted. Guilty, a criminal…but his.

It’s enough to make his heart ache, even if he knows it is a lie he has painted for himself. He must forget this traitor soon but for one last time, he just wants to remember. His scent, his touch, his kisses, his voice. One last time. Perhaps.

Brave words.

 _Do you love me?_ Sirius asks him again.

 _No,_ he answers, finally.

He does not want to know anymore.


End file.
